I wrote this for my mom. She’s still here, like she’s always been. But with covid it’s feels like she’s not, and I miss her. Her and everyone else.
To my mom.
It’s always been you
I hung up the phone and said my heart was racing. Count your pulse you said. I can’t I replied. It’s going too fast. You’re counting double beats you said, but then you felt it too. On the way to the hospital, you said yes, you’d tell Eric I’ve always loved him, but you’re not going to die.
You have always been there.
I sat in the family room, eyes reflecting the lights of your perfect tree. I opened the box. I made it for you, you said. Inside, a red, white, and black scarf. A tribute to the Blackhawks. A testament to your love. To how you always pay attention. To the boundless thoughtfulness you possess.
You are always there.
Amy followed me in the door. I have to talk to you, I said. You and Dad. You’re dropping out? You asked. No, I said, looking at the floor, jiggling my leg the way that drives you up the wall.. You’re pregnant? You asked, but it was more of a statement. You knew I was carrying your first grandchild. He would be due about the end of my sophomore year. And you hugged me.
You’ve always been there.
Walking through the living room to the kitchen, a bolt of foreboding shook me. I’m scared, I said. Something is wrong. Come here, you said, and led me to the sofa. Lay in my lap and take some deep breaths; I’ll scratch your head, you said. And as the longest minutes of my life gave way to the normalcy of time and my breathing returned, it was you there. As you are.
Sitting with my legs still in stirrups, his lips went blue. His breathing stopped. His ‘Fus lip and chin suddenly the least of our worries, you were there. You told me it would be okay. And you made me believe. As they took him away, you held me, and I never knew you were as scared as I. More maybe. Because you never let your fears become mine.
And you were there.
The vet was on her way. There’s turkey in the fridge, you said, let’s heat some for her. It won’t matter if it’s too old, we joked, because joking is the way we could cope with saying goodbye to our sweet Tica.
And you were there.
The beach was chilly in December. Even with a mask to warm my face. We walked toward the sunset, marveling at the reflection of a dog in the sunlit tide pool. I’d never been afraid on that beach before. It makes me feel limitless and small all at the same time. You gave me the gift of that island and the peace it brings. And despite my fear that day and the next and the day after that, you were there and so was the awe and wonder.
It’s always been you.
I stood in the backyard, looking down the hill toward the yard of the boy behind me. I wanted to play like we always did. There, only four, I felt grown up, trusted, loved. I was free to play, yet you were watching, caring enough to let me wander and make my own way. Keeping me always safely in your sight. Because you vowed to always be there. And you always keep your vows.
I stood on the porch, broken glass and a styrofoam head in my hand. My bottle doll in shambles. It was Matt, I said. I felt your anger and comfort all at once. And somehow, you made it okay.
Laying on the screen porch in my long flannel nightgown, trying to keep down the apple cinnamon yogurt and playing solitaire, I never knew how sick I was. Or that the hippie we picked up is why. I just felt safe. And loved. Because you are always there.
Sitting on my own couch now. In my own house. In the same town where you made me believe all things were possible if I just believe in myself and put in the time, I look out my window at all the lights, and while they are lovely, they cannot replace the light that is lost without you. I am broken knowing I’ve hurt you by not sharing Christmas with you yet again. You, the one person who has always been there. My cheerleader, confidant, champion, caregiver, friend.
For fifty-two years you’ve held my hand, prayed for me, protected my heart, loved me, given me hope and beauty and joy. You taught me of truth and honesty, of goodness, forgiveness, and that loving yourself is important too. You’ve shown that sacrifice never looks like sacrifice to those who benefit because you do it so well. My mother, my queen. The light of my life and the keeper of my heart. You are the only gift I’ll ever need. You have always been there.
Thank you. I love you to the moon and back times infinity. You will always be the one.